


The Grey

by thenakednymph



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adaar staring at the statue of the Dread Wolf, F/M, Gen, bah needs work, but I like the concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:31:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenakednymph/pseuds/thenakednymph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adaar remembers little from the few times she's nearly died, but she remembers that color.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Something that's been stuck in my head since I first started playing DAI. Needs some more work but I wanted to share it anyway.

"Well, come on, standing around staring at it isn't getting us anywhere." Morrigan turns on her heel and strides off, back the way they've come, heedless as to whether or not they follow, simply assuming they will. Or maybe she simply doesn't care.

Dorian heads after her, but Adaar hesitates, one shoulder turned away, staring up at the statue of Fen'harel. There's an odd look on her face as she stares at the weathered stone. Solas stands off to the side watching her watch the Dread Wolf. 

"What is it?" He steps up to her shoulder but the Inquisitor has eyes only for Feh'harel. She shakes her head as if it isn't important but she can't make herself walk away, can't seem to break the gaze. Her lips part as if to say something but the question she asks is not the one she intended.

Her voice is soft, careful and distant when she speaks and Solas wonders what she's thinking. "What color do you think he is?" 

It's not the first time Adaar's rapid change in subject has left him reeling in a conversation, but it never ceases to amaze him. He isn't used to feeling off balance, surprised, he's too old, but somehow she manages it. 

It takes him a moment to adjust to the shift, catch up with her but when he does he hums thoughtfully, turning the question over in his mind. He wonders what to tell her, how much of the truth to share and how much it could hurt to do so. 

"Grey I suppose," he finally says. "Like a storm cloud."

Adaar nods slowly but her eyes are dazed and unblinking, caught up in a memory. It doesn't take long for him to figure out which one. "Do you remember,” she begins, “when they found me, after the escape from Haven?"

His heart skips in remembrance. She was half dead by the time Cullen and Cassandra managed to drag her back into camp, half frozen and barely breathing. Everyone had been worried sick. Few thought she'd even survived the avalanche and then she comes stumbling back into camp, alive, but they didn't know if she'd make it. 

"You were a half frozen corpse,” he said lightly, trying to hide the tightness in his throat, the panic slicking his palms at the memory. “You nearly lost a few fingers to frostbite if I remember correctly."

"And some toes," she adds absently, oblivious to his discomfort. "Those two times I nearly died from the mark...I don't remember much, but I remember that color." Her voice is almost wistful, eyes searching the wolf's. "The doctors' notes said I kept talking in my sleep about something called 'the grey'," she murmurs.

"And you think what?” he asks, “that it was the Dread Wolf?" His tone borders on scathing and Adaar turns to face him, her expression oddly calm and he wishes she were angry, crying, anything but shut off like she is. He can't stop his racing heart.

"I know it was,” she says. Her voice is calm and smooth and sure, not at all like what he was expecting. “When I was recovering in camp while the Inquisition was in limbo I remember him, feeling his presence.” She glances up at the statue. “He was protecting me." Solas looks dubious. "Something came for me," she presses, "tried to take me while I slept and Fen'harel guarded me in the Fade.” Her eyes water at the memory, her words warped by tears he's afraid to understand. “He saved my life." Solas shifts his weight, the grip on his staff tightening. His eyes narrow. His heart is racing in his chest. She remembered? 

"And you think you,” he bites out, “a Qunari, are worthy of Fen'harel's attention, his protection?" He spits the words like they're something vile, his scathing tone more from fear than anger.

Adaar turns away, little affected by it. She reaches out to touch the statue but stops short, hovering just above his nose, Fen'harel's sightless eyes watching her. Her hand falls back to her side without grazing the stone. The itch to touch is still there, but now it feels like a defilement and she curls her fingers into a fist to keep from trying again.

"Come on, we've got a long way to go." She strides away but Solas calls out to her before she's taken more that a few steps.

"Why did you hesitate just then?” he asks. “It's a statue, what harm could touching it really do?" The anger has left his voice, replaced with gentle curiosity. He hadn't meant to snap at her. He's sagging forward, leaning against his staff for support. Adaar stops but doesn't turn around. She stares up into the dark passageway ahead of her, Solas standing at her back between her and the Dread Wolf. 

"Because you're right," she says softly looking over her shoulder, meeting his eyes. "I'm a Qunari. I am not one of the People. My attentions are likely unwelcome." She vanishes beneath the archway, the shadows swallowing her and leaving Solas to stare at the statue of Fen'harel, an odd smile playing across his mouth. 

"I would not be so sure."


End file.
